John Lescroart - A Certain Justice

'Symbolic is always good,' Aiken said.

'So to demonstrate our commitment, to show that our first priority is to bring the city back together…'

'We hand up Kevin Shea.'

Donald nodded: 'He's guilty. Look at the pictures. We offer, say, a half-million dollars, which is cheap indeed if it stops the rampage.'

Aiken ran a hand under his tired eyes, over the port-wine stain. 'I don't want Chief Rigby to think I'm pointing the finger at him, Donald. For not having arrested Shea yet. They're doing all they can.'

'No one's saying they're not, sir. You can even make the point overtly. But we need – you need – the gesture, the assurance to the black community that the city is trying, that we're all in it together. It might even – all by itself – throw some oil on the waters for a while.'

It was all right, Aiken thought, because it could work. And it was justified. A rare combination. 'In other words,' he said, 'the order of business this morning is to rally the Board around this reward, around apprehending Kevin Shea, make a resolution to that effect

'You lead them there, sir.'

'And then walk out?'

Donald gave it a moment, then nodded. 'Essentially. Yes.'

Aiken, too, bobbed his head. 'I like it,' he said. 'Let's go make it fly.'

When the door closed after Aiken had left the room to go to the Supervisors' Chamber, Donald sat at his desk for a very long five minutes, timing it. Often, Aiken would rush out, get halfway to wherever he was going, then turn around and burst back into the office, grabbing whatever it was he'd forgotten, giving a last minute directive that he had overlooked.

But since Aiken was only heading to the opposite side of City Hall – a one-minute walk – Donald thought that if he were going to return it would be almost immediately. Still, Donald was cautious by nature. It was wise to give yourself twice the time you needed. What if the mayor got stopped by the media out in the hallway and then remembered something and ran back in here? One couldn't be too careful.

That thought in mind, Donald got up from his desk, walked the long internal panelled corridor to the reception area, then out through the public door, number 100, that admitted the public into the mayor's outer office.

There was no one in the hallway. Donald walked over to the balcony overlooking the vast rotunda – across the way, in the opposite hallway, he saw the edges of a crowd trying to see inside the Supervisors' Chamber. Something – he imagined Aiken's arrival there – had set off the crowd.

Satisfied, he turned and made his way through the office. At his desk he removed a white piece of paper from his wallet. It was blank except for seven numbers – no name attached.

At the receiving end a pleasant female voice asked him to leave his message.

After identifying himself, Donald told the machine that the mayor was in fact going ahead with the alternative they had discussed, and Donald predicted that the Board would pass the resolution within the next few hours.

When he hung up his hands were unsteady. Well, what did he expect? He had never done anything like that before – naturally it made him nervous. But the funny thing was that it was probably actually helping Conrad Aiken. It was a good idea.

Still, he did feel a small sense of betrayal. It bothered him, as though he had somehow switched loyalties. But after this catastrophe, and it hadn't even played out yet, Aiken was no certainty for reelection in five months and then what was Donald going to do if he didn't watch out for himself?

He had to broaden his base, make himself valuable to other people who might need his help. He had no doubt now – after this call – that Loretta Wager would remember him if he called on her. He wouldn't have to say it – she would know that she owed him. And she would deliver. That was how it worked, and the senator well knew it. He'd heard. Mutual acquaintances.

Senator Wager's daughter, Elaine, had finally slept – soundly and long, waking up a little after dawn. Out through her living-room window, under the cloud cover, there was considerably less smoke than there had been the day before. She allowed herself a moment's optimism – things might be getting better, the city's wounds would heal after all.

Then she had opened the newspaper…

In one of the oversized men's T-shirts she used as a nightgown she was sitting on the hardwood floor just inside her door, where she had been when she saw the headline and her legs had gone. She remembered reaching out to the wall for support and then deciding she was just going to have to sit down. She must have lost control of her bladder, the floor under her was wet. She was sucking her index finger. Time must have passed.

Her stomach was growling and she tried her legs again. It was a long way to the bathroom.

She could not believe no one had called her. But then she remembered she had unplugged the phone and turned down the answering machine – there were some times when you had to get some sleep.

Chris Locke's voice was on the answering machine.

'Oh God,' she said, a new wave washing over her.

He'd called before… before…

Her hand clutched at her stomach, kneading the unyielding knot, mesmerized by the words, the voice, the last time she'd hear it.

He loved her, he was saying. He needed her, they had to talk. Was there any chance she could meet him tomorrow – oh Lord, that was this morning – before work? He was going out with Mohandas and her mother for dinner, and that should run late. Maybe he'd drop by her apartment before going home. She could beep him and let him know.

Then here was her mother, with her voice of controlled calm she used in moments of greatest stress, calling from the police station. Someone had almost shot her, had shot Chris… Please, honey, she was saying, don't go out until you get this message, until you've talked to me.

Next on the machine was her officemate, Jerry Ouzounis, but that was information only, the start of office politics, and she fast-forwarded through part of it, then let it play, not listening, her eyes glazed over.

Somehow she had gotten dressed. Was she actually planning on going to work? She didn't know. But here she was, her hair was up, makeup on. Shoes. No hose. She took off her shoes, then forgot what she was doing. She knew she was sitting on the bed and she'd wanted to remember to do something, and here were her pantyhose on the bed next to her. But the connection wouldn't come.

There was the telephone, next to the bed. Was it somebody she wanted to call? She'd tried her mother but there was never any telling where she might be. The phone had rung fifteen times. She punched in that number again. Maybe that was it. Trying again.

There was always a line of black-and-white police cars parked along the curb in front of the Hall of Justice, but this day they clogged four of Bryant Street 's five lanes.

Elaine Wager had to take a cab – her usual bus wasn't in service this morning. She stood at the corner – Seventh and Bryant – again with the overriding sense that reality had shifted in some fundamental way. A parking and traffic enforcement meter minder was casually writing out citations on the police cars as though they were normal vehicles, writing down license numbers and sticking his handiwork under wiper blades as though someone had told him this was a reasonable use of his time amid all this madness. And he had believed it…

The crowd inside the Hall had thinned, no doubt as a result of the curfew – fewer bodies getting hauled in during the night for processing. Elaine spacewalked through the metal detector and came around one of the columns, the cavernous lobby opening out before her.